[Cally Conan-Davies]

Now THAT one's pungent, Ann! That's my fave so far - a real cracker!

[basil ransome-davies]

Some men dream big: fantastic wealth, a life on sunny shores
Of sumptuous, pampered indolence and ease,
But my dream-objects are minute: the Penicillium spores
That grow the tasty veins in Roquefort cheese.
The hard-wired artistry they show, the energy and zeal,
Prodigious in their low-lit limestone caves,
Inscribing emerald traces in each immature white wheel,
A multitude of tiny, willing slaves,
Amenable and mellow as the lovely Lacaune ewes
Whose salted milk they magically enhance,
A beneficial fungus with a mission to infuse,
The pride of the Larzac – indeed, of France.
I'm cheesy as Bill Clinton. Cheese concludes my every meal.
I play the fromage field and wouldn't jib
At any blue bar Danish, but my fantasy ideal
Is Côtes du Tarn and Roquefort, ad lib.

[Roger Slater]

Rice
is nice
but Buddha
ate Gouda.

Blue
will do
but feta
is better.

Comté
one day,
but chevre
nevre.

I diss
Swiss
but cheer
paneer.

[Ann Drysdale]

I was wondering why you didn't put feta where you have cheddar, since the rhyme would be - better. Then I see you've rhymed feta with later - later. Do you? Does it?

[Catherine Tufariello]

John, yours is a winner for sure!

I don't know if pastiche is what Lucy has in mind for this one, but I couldn't resist.

Song of the Cheese

I sing of processed American cheese, the glory of these States,
Factory sliced and shredded by white-apron’d workers clean and strong,
But I do not decline to feast also on the cheeses of Europe.
See me at the reception, hovering over the hors d’oeuvres,
Consuming a great wheel of Cheddar golden and glowing as the sun,
Making short work of the snowy-rinded Brie,
Gobbling up every crumb of the Morbier and its layer of smoky ash,
Devouring the blue mold of Roquefort, and Gouda with its crimson wax.
In vain does soft Camembert run in the heat to escape me,
In vain does a wedge of Stinking Bishop brandish its bristling name,
In vain does ripe Limberger assault my nose with its stench of sweaty feet,
In vain does the remotest iota of fermented milk in the vast wheel’d Universe
Conceal itself on a darkened moon, or the bottom shelf of a locked-up larder,
Or in a protective crust of puff pastry.
I find I incorporate all, all are part of me,
Out of them all I press the cheese of my Self.

[Roger Slater]

Catherine, "the cheese of myself" is a winner. I take it this is a small portion of your "Cheese of Grass" sequence?

Thanks, Ann, for your take on pronouncing "feta." I often hear it said "fate-uh" but maybe that's not widespread, especially in the UK where it counts. Back to the drawing board.

[Catherine Tufariello]

Indeed, it’s only a brief excerpt (scribbled on the back of a cheese wrapper) from a tragically lost Whitmanian epic of that name. How did you know?

Jerome, you asked upstream about the first line of a Housman parody you thought you’d seen before. I wonder if you were thinking of this sentence from The Brand-X Anthology of Poetry: “Milton and Wordsworth set the standard for gerontions of Cheese (and later, Snack) Poets, including John Hausman, author of 'Loveliest of Cheese, the Cheshire Now'…” So far as I can tell, the poem exists only in its winning first line, so it seems to me the field is clear for you to finish it.

[FOsen]

Inspired (barely) by the Elvis poem on the other board, this is all I'm coming up with . . .

Gruyere and Teleme, Baby Bel,
Cambazola, Mutschli, Emental,
Ricotta, Gioda, Bruder, Gorgonzola,
Stilton, Brie, Cheddar, Laguiole,
Ircano, Jarlsberg, Mascarpone,
Maconnais, Chevre, Provolone,
Camembert, Guernsey Girl, let’s have party,
Ircano, Cheshire, Yarg, Havarti.
It may be cheesy but its true,
I’m thanking Gouda I fondue.

Frank

[Roger Slater]

You were so kind
to cut the cheese,
but when we ate each slice

and you continued
cutting it,
it wasn't half as nice.

[Roger Slater]

Here's one I already had, a children's triolet:

The Moon Is Made of Cheese

The moon is made of cheese.
I'm pretty sure that's true.
My teacher disagrees.
"The moon's not made of cheese,"
she laughs, but I think she's
been misinformed. Don't you?
The moon is made of cheese.
I'm pretty sure that's true.